Just Like Lily
by isidore131
Summary: Harry's eyes are just like Lily's.


Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter or any of the characters or situations residing in the HP universe, nor am I making any money off this story. This is written purely for my own entertainment, although I hope you enjoy it as well. 

Author's Note: I changed canon a little. Pretend Petunia lied when she said she'd heard Lily and James talking about Dementors in Book 5; instead, she'd actually spoken to James and heard about them herself.

Much as it pained her to admit it, Harry had always been mature and intelligent, just like Lily. 

She had no idea what James Potter was like; she had only met the boy twice; once at her wedding to Vernon; her parents had insisted that she invite Lily, and Lily had been so polite asking if she could bring her boyfriend, and her manner had reminded Petunia so much of the sister she had once loved, that Petunia had been unable to refuse. 

Her wedding had not been ruined because of her sister's freakishness. The boy had been disgustingly polite to her, although she had been able to see the thinly veiled disgust in his eyes after she'd casually dismissed Lily. 

The only other time she'd met the boy was at their parents' funeral and wake. Lily had clung to him, eyes red, but she didn't cry, not there. 

Petunia knew why. Lily had not cried in front of her since she came home the summer after her first year at Hog-_that place_, when Petunia had told Lily she no longer loved her. 

She had meant it, and Lily, even at twelve, had known she'd meant it. 

The tears from that last fight subsided quickly, and Lily had stared at Petunia, then nodded and walked away, pointedly turning her back on the sister she loved. 

Lily had pulled Petunia into a swift and firm hug, burying her head in her shoulder, when she saw her at the wake, and for a moment, they were not freak and normal person, they were sisters, sharing the grief of deceased parents. 

Then Petunia remembered, and gently but firmly pushed Lily away, into the arms of the boy. 

He had completely ignored Petunia, but the man standing behind him – one of three – did not. Beneath his prematurely grey hair, he had glared hatefully and unrepentantly. 

Vernon had been distracted when the boy had pulled her aside that day, discussing the cost of burial with the caretaker of the cemetery. 

"You'll leave us alone from now on. I expect you'll be happy about that. Do you have any idea how it pains Lily to have you hate her? It's worse on her than Cruciatus, and I should know." For a moment, his brown eyes had reflected deep pain and terrible sadness. 

Then he was back with her. "I, for one, was glad that you refused to come to our wedding, but if you can find it in you to love her like you're her sister, know this; we're having a baby. When you get over your prejudices, you may come to visit him if you like." 

Involuntarily, she'd placed a hand over her own only slightly distended belly. They were expecting, too? But Lily was much too young, what if she were hurt— 

She'd stopped that train of thought. She didn't care about Lily. 

She said as much to the boy. 

He'd stared at her for a long moment. "I never thought I would say this, but I so wish I was a Death Eater right now. Then the Dark Lord could save me from the Dementors – for a little while – for doing the things I want to do to you right now." 

Before she could stop herself, she'd said, "What?" 

He'd been turning to leave her, but at her question he stopped short, and when he turned to look at her, she didn't like the smile that appeared on his face or the malice in his eyes. 

"You want to know?" He'd chuckled evilly. "I'll explain the whole thing." 

And he had. 

He had terrified her senseless with his stories, and it had taken her until the day Harry showed up on her doorstep to completely forget them. 

Harry. 

She had no idea if he took after his father in anything but looks, but his maturity and intelligence were Lily's for sure. 

He'd come back after fifth year so changed she didn't recognize him. He had preceded them out to the car, obeyed Vernon's snapped instructions without blinking an eye, and had said absolutely nothing at all unless spoken to. 

And he was so distant. It was always, "Yes, Uncle Vernon. No, Uncle Vernon." Not rude or condescending, just . . . accepting. 

He had dragged his trunk up to his room, and, when Vernon had protested, he had said, "I need to do my homework, Uncle Vernon. They'll get upset with me if it's not done when I get back after the summer." 

He had not been rude; this changed Harry was never rude, nor was he ever condescending, or harsh. He simply stated the facts as they were; his teachers wanted his homework done when he got back to the school. There was not a question of him going back. 

Grudgingly, Vernon had let him continue on. 

Harry had smiled impassively and continued on up the stairs. 

And for the most part, that was all they saw of him all summer. 

He came down at breakfast, ate his grapefruit, did his morning chores without complaint, ate his lunch, did his afternoon chores without complaint, ate his dinner, did his evening chores without complaint, served the family, and retreated to Dudley's second bedroom without so much as a whimper if he weren't spoken to or given something. 

Never, ever rude, just . . . disconnected. 

Something had happened, something more terrible than anything else that had ever happened to him. 

His eyes, Lily's eyes, were so old, so tormented . . . 

Lily's eyes had always been so expressive, but they'd never looked so old as Harry's. 

She didn't want to think why, but it consumed her. 

This was her blood, after all. 

"Dudley, you're going into work with your father today. I have housework to get done, and it's time you started learning the business," she said. 

She had to talk to Harry. She **had** to. The curiosity was killing her, and it would be best to just get it out of the way. 

Vernon grunted in agreement and clapped Dudley on the back. 

Harry was completely and utterly impassive. 

Once they were gone, she set him to work vacuuming the parlour. Once that was done, she sent him outside to trim the hedges and fertilize the plants, generally give the yard a good cleaning. 

For lunch, she made him a salad with trimmings, a large sandwich, and a large bowl of soup, alongside a glass of milk, and, as a special treat, a Coke. 

He'd stared at her suspiciously when he came in. 

"Wash up," she'd snapped, and that seemed more like her, she guessed, because his face returned to the impassive expression and he simply headed into the downstairs wash, then come back to the table. 

She set the food in front of him, and he began to eat. 

"Thank you, Aunt Petunia. What are my chores for the afternoon?" he asked when he had finished. 

She ignored him and brought a carton of ice cream from inside the freezer. "I've hid this from Dudley; you're not to mention it to him, is that clear?" 

"Yes Aunt Petunia," he said, emotion colouring his voice. 

Ha. She had surprised him. 

She dropped one scoop into the bowl, then shrugged and added a second before putting the carton away, hidden carefully under a bag of Brussels sprouts. 

Petunia set the bowl in front of him. 

He picked up the spoon, looking at her curiously. 

"I thought we'd have a chat," she said lamely, then cursed herself for her idiocy. 

He didn't respond, just put another spoonful of ice cream in his mouth. 

"I-I wanted to know . . . the boy . . . he mentioned about a Cruciatus curse." 

Harry nodded, eyes now focussed completely on her. 

"W-what is that?" 

Harry shrugged. 

"Tell me," she ordered. 

Quietly, in a voice completely devoid of emotion, he explained. "It's a curse cast to cause the victim to experience the worst pain they've ever felt. It's an Unforgivable, like the killing curse." 

"The one used on Li-your parents?" 

He nodded. 

"Have you ever cast it?" 

Harry bowed his head, ashamed, then nodded sadly. 

"Why on earth, Harry Potter, would you want someone to feel the worst thing they've ever felt?" 

He shrugged. 

She couldn't say anything. He certainly had absolutely no reason at all to trust her. 

There was a tense moment, then Harry began to speak again, his voice once again completely empty. "I was in the Ministry of Mag-well, the Ministry. We-my friends and I-we were fighting a group of Death Eaters . . . they're Voldemort's—" 

"I know what they are, Harry," she stopped him from explaining. "Your father told me all about them." 

He looked at her curiously, but did not ask her to explain further, a fact for which she was grateful. "I had gone in to save Sirius – I thought they had taken him." He smiled bitterly. "I discovered I was wrong." He closed his eyes against some hidden pain and ate a bit more of the chocolate ice cream, which seemed to give him strength, because he continued. "He came in to save me from them . . . and he was killed by-by a woman. I ran after her – I was so angry – I cast it without thinking. She just laughed when I stopped. She said – she said I had to really mean it for it to work. She tried to do it to me, but then Dum-the Headmaster came and stopped her." 

He stopped speaking and ate a bit more ice cream. 

When he looked up again, he was calmer. "I found out about why you let me stay here after the battle was over." 

She stared at him. He hadn't known? Dumbledore had said in the letter he'd left with Harry on their doorstep that he would tell the child when Harry was eleven. She wondered what had gone wrong. 

"Sirius is dead?" she asked softly. 

He nodded, but didn't react after that. 

"I was possessed by Voldemort," he said after a long while. 

Somehow, he knew she wanted to hear more of the story. 

Or perhaps he just needed to tell it to a person who wouldn't interrupt him with inane questions about how he "felt" about the whole ordeal. 

"He and Dumbledore were fighting," Harry was continuing, "And Dumbledore told him that death was nothing. Voldemort possessed me and said to Dumbledore that if death was nothing, Dumbledore ought to be able to kill me." Harry smiled wryly. "He didn't fall for that trick, of course, and then . . . well, I started thinking about Sirius, and how much I l-loved him and how I would get to see him again . . . I was sure that if Dumbledore didn't kill me, Voldemort would make me kill myself . . . and I was suddenly so filled with emotion and then Voldemort was gone." 

His eyes slid to hers, and they were old. Much older than she, much older than Dumbledore. "I've never lost anything I really loved before," he said. 

Against her will, her eyes filled with tears. 

Furiously, she blinked them back. "How did you find out why I kept you?" 

He smiled wryly again. "It's a long story . . ." 

"It's okay. Tell me." 

He seemed surprised again, then suspicious. "What's going on here, Aunt Petunia?" 

She wasn't sure herself, but struggled to answer as best as she could. "You're my blood," was the best she could come up with, but he seemed to understand, smiling sardonically. 

"It's always got to be the blood," he murmured. "Very well. Sixteen years ago, Sybill Trelawney made a prophecy regarding the wizard who would destroy Voldemort. Dumbledore heard it, and Voldemort heard the first part of it, which caused him to attack my parents and me." He laughed humourlessly. "The funny part is that if he hadn't attacked us at all, there would be no one to oppose him. Had he simply not acted, he'd be safely in charge of the Wizarding world. He chose me, you see. It was between me and another boy. But it was prophesied that he would mark the boy who would defeat him. And he missed that part of the prophecy." 

He gestured to the scar. "So he marked me, and now . . . I have to either kill him, or he will kill me. In the end, one of us cannot exist for long while the other remains alive." He sniffled lightly, the only indication of tears she'd heard. "I will either be a murderer or the victim of one. Dumbledore said he should have told me earlier, but that he loved me so much, he didn't want to burden me with the knowledge." He laughed again. "I don't understand why he loves me that much. I'm sure you don't either," he added, as if just remembering she was in the room. "But that was what he told me. He said if he'd told me when I was eleven, when he'd planned to, then I would have known that Voldemort was trying to get me into the Department of Mysteries, and I wouldn't have gone." He shrugged. "It's my fault, anyway, though. Hermione says I have a saving people thing, and Voldemort knew just the person to pretend to have kidnapped." His chest jerked as though he were trying to hold off a sob. "I would have done anything in the world to save Sirius. I loved him. He knew my father better than anyone." 

"Anyway," he said, calming down. "Like I told you, Voldemort had never heard the entire prophecy, and a copy of it was kept at the DoM. Only he or I could remove it, and he could not, of course, show himself at the Ministry. So I pulled it off the shelf for him. It broke before he could hear it, but as Dumbledore was the one the prophecy had been told to, he told it to me himself, after a fashion."

He paused and took a deep breath, then finished off his ice cream. 

"After that revelation, I think, he had nothing else left to hide from me. He had to tell me how my mother's love saved me and how her blood now protects me. And so now I know why Voldemort wants me dead, and why I have to live with you every year, and why my parents were so futilely killed." 

They sat in silence for a long while, everything sinking in to Petunia. 

Harry got up after a time, and rinsed off his lunch dishes, putting them in the dishwasher. He packed away her uneaten lunch for her, put it away in the refrigerator, then headed upstairs. 

He came down for dinner that night, did his chores without complaint, served the family until bedtime, then retreated to his room. 

The next day, he came down at breakfast, ate his grapefruit, did his morning chores without complaint, ate his lunch, did his afternoon chores without complaint, ate his dinner, did his evening chores without complaint, served the family, and retreated to his tiny bedroom without so much as offering a word if he weren't spoken to. 

He seemed to understand that nothing had changed in their family dynamic just because he'd answered some of Petunia's questions. 

Harry was mature and intelligent. 

Just like Lily.


End file.
